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Monday, April 9, 2018


 When the tickets didn’t come through I hated everyone who had one and kept saying to myself “you are good, you love dogs, you chose those brown shoes, your name is Fern or Roy” as a reminder, so many single syllable words I thought outside the window of my airport hotel a plane would crash from so much baggage of sleepy schadenfreude. Nights of kindness after days of spleen. I was hoping yesterday would be today, but if the organ transplants are a success it won’t matter anyway. The little raisins will puff back up into wholesome grapes and the kids will eat them happily and stay sitting at the table until the bowl is empty. I agree to everything because this might be the last time ever, right? Once after a poetry reading the poets held a raffle and I won. They gave me tickets to see a singer I didn’t want to see so I spent half a day outside the concert hall trying to scalp them to people who already had tickets, or didn’t have any and didn’t want them either. Will I ever go back to Venice? Home is back there, the doge blogged. Over the PA a message: someone lost something important but they know the name of the person it belonged to and it’s not mine.

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